


Until the Sixth Night

by Drewyth



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And That's Kind of the Point, Comedy, Crossover, Drama, Except They Don't Really Die, Explicit Language, Horror, Humor, It's an Overly Dramatic Comedy Okay, M/M, Temporary Character Death, This Fic Takes Itself Too Seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: Four countries find themselves trapped in Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. Now, a bunch of weird robots are trying to kill them. Together, they must work with their partner to survive five nights of animatronic hell. This would be fine…if they weren’t all idiots.*Rusame/FrUK comedy. This fic doesn’t take itself seriously at all. Enjoy.





	Until the Sixth Night

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so, basically, I blame Kat for introducing me to FNAF five years late. We started watching a bunch of real-life FNAF simulators, so I got inspired for the most garbage fic I've ever written. It's brilliant, really. As stated in the summary, this is a comedy. The fic takes itself super seriously at times, and sometimes, not seriously at all. I hope you will also not take this fic seriously, but that you enjoy it if you've ever wondered what would happen if America needed to work with Russia, and England needed to work with France, to survive Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. Also, don't worry, because any "deaths" that happen here are not actual deaths. You'll see what I mean. Have fun!

12 AM. Night 1.

_“Hello? Hello, hello?”_

“Hello?” America slumped in a worn office chair and flicked the candle on a plastic cupcake. “Hellooo? Dude, can this guy even hear us? I think our signal’s bad.”

“It is a recording.” Russia inspected the door mechanisms on either side of them. He pressed a button labeled _Light_ and cast the hall into flickering fluorescence. “Listen.”

_“Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. A magical place for kids and grownups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life.”_

“Snore.” America rolled his eyes. His head dipped into his palm. “Why couldn’t we have wound up at an arcade, or somewhere fun kids actually _like_ to go?”

“That is right.” Russia plucked at America’s hair. America spun around, but Russia continued before he could protest. “You don’t like clowns or mannequins or anything that looks like a person and is not animated safely behind a screen. In fact, you are scared of such things, yes?”

“Not scared.” America clarified, “Reasonably cautious.”

“Ah.”

_“So, remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children, and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay.”_

“These look like things I used to draw, when I was a child.” Russia prodded a couple of crude drawings pinned to the wall. America glanced at one: An oversized bear with teeth too big for its skull and dead, black eyes.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” America kicked his feet onto the desk. His attention moved to the video monitor in front of him. He picked it up, flicking through a few channels of static. “Oh hey, I found the animatronic guys he was talking about.”

A wide presence filled the space at his back. “They are kind of cute.”

“Dude, are you kidding me? This is nightmare fuel.” He set aside the monitor and rummaged through a scatter of crumpled papers. “What else we got here? Just someone’s…freakin’ paperwork? How lame is this—Wait. Did he just say, ‘free roaming mode?’”

America tipped his head back to look at Russia. The other man shrugged. “Why don’t you check that monitor?”

America picked it back up, flipped through the stations. The phone guy droned on.

_“…against the rules here at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, they’ll probably try to…forcefully stuff you inside a Freddy Fazbear suit.”_

America blinked at the video footage. He counted three animatronics. Frowned. “Hey Russia? You know anything about people living without their frontal lobes?”

“Plenty.” Russia leaned back against the desk.

“Right… And do I wanna know?”

“You do not.”

“Gotcha.” America checked the monitor again, noting the battery life in the bottom left corner. “So, what, we’re just supposed to sit around, try not to fuck each other with our flashlights too much, and hope our power lasts ‘til morning?”

“And try not to let them kill us.” Russia nodded at the monitor. When America glanced back, a flicker of motion caught his gaze. He took a deep breath, flashed a challenging smile.

“Let’s do it then.”

12 AM. Night 1.

“We are going to _die_ here.”

England turned with the monitor in hand. He took inventory of everything in the room: Satanic scribblings. Automatic doors. Posters that might as well serve as anti-Fazbear propaganda. Oh, and the _cobwebs._ He made a face and flicked one away from the desk.

“If I had known this would be my fate, I would have said goodbye to loved ones, and confessed my undying hatred for that pesky Englishman I’m always seeing in my nightmares.”

The monitor itself revealed little activity. Three animatronics stood soundly in their places. England took the opportunity to map the rest of the establishment. The east and west halls looked to be vital locations in terms of defense. Ah, but the kitchen didn’t have visual footage. How inconvenient.

“Perhaps this is one of them. A nightmare. They always start this way, you know. I am trapped in a cramped, decrepit hell with the person I can stand least in this world. That is you, _Angleterre,_ in case you were wondering _._ ”

“Would you stop your yammering?” England’s head snapped up, eyes sharp under a thick and furrowed brow. “I can’t hear the man.”

_“…absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, goodnight.”_

There was a click. Then, silence.

England frowned. “What was that? What did he say about conserving power?”

“Does it matter?” France sat on the desk, crossing one long leg over the other. “That voice is one from the past. I will bet he’s already met his gruesome end. This is why he could not call us in real time, no? His advice failed even himself, and so it is perfectly useless.” Violet-blue eyes cast miserably toward the video monitor. “Soon, we will share the very same fate.”

“ _You_ might share his fate,” England corrected. “I intend to bloody well stay alive. Now, if you could kindly display an ounce of competence and—”

A sudden flash of light, and England went blind. He shouted a curse, stumbled, and blinked, again and again, to clear his vision. A scowl tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Blast it!” England pressed the heels of his hands into the backs of his eyes. His scowl only deepened when he pulled them away. “God damn you—Only the French would shine a torch directly in somebody’s eyes! Hand that over.”

England wrenched the flashlight from France’s grip. He swung it at the man’s arm, but France deflected it with his hand. There was a crack, and a hiss of pain.

“And only the _English_ would attack someone with said torch, you _casse-couilles_. Ahh… _Casse-toi!_ _Tête de noeud._ ” France tried batting him away, but England caught his busted hand, eliciting another screech.

“Well, now, it isn’t _my_ fault!” England bared his teeth and retreated. “You’re the one who threw your damn hand in the way of, what might have been, a right harmless blow. Honestly, when you see a sword coming your way, do you try to catch it? Actually, given the number of losses you faced as a pirate, I suppose that wouldn’t be too farfetched.”

“Why, I have never had the displeasure of dealing with someone as foul-hearted as you. And now, I am supposed to work with you? To _survive_ with you?” France spat a laugh. His half cape whirled when he turned. “I envy the dead man on the phone. He had it _easy._ ”

“Oh, right, well. Allow me to save you the trouble, then.” England advanced, crushing his thumbs over France’s windpipe. “You envy the dead man, you say? What do you think his last words were? Do you suppose he asked his attacker to have _mercy?_ Hm?”

France choked. Then, when he’d had enough, he knocked England’s hands away. “You are a sadist and a creep.”

England smiled to himself, smoothed down the front of his shirt. “The _smell_ of this place is more offensive than any of your words. Have you _heard_ of a shower?”

“ _Angleterre—_ ”

“Oh, and you can stop it with the French. There’s no one here you’re impressing with it, and _I_ certainly don’t consider it a _romantic_ language.”

“ _Angleterre…_ ”

“Sounds like you’re pinching your nose when you speak, it does. Although, that’s no surprise really, when you consider the stench that clings to you. You know, planting a rosebush over a gravesite doesn’t erase the smell of decay. It just makes the place smell like flowers and rotting corpses mixed together.”

“ _Angleterre_.” The urgency of France’s voice silenced him. France’s gaze moved from the monitor to England. His lower lip trembled. “The purple one is moving.”

England’s eyes grew. “Let me see that.”

He snatched the monitor from France’s hands. The stage room held two characters. Cursing, England flicked through the stations. France hovered over his shoulder. As close as he stood, England could feel him shaking. Then, a leering face glitched into view on the camera. The purple one _was moving_. Slowly, England lowered the monitor and repeated the only sensible thing France had said all night.

“We are going to die here.”

5 AM. Night 1.

“Purple dude’s the only one active tonight, for sure.”

America sucked at his can of coke, even though the soda had long since run out. He’d have to bring more next time. He sat at the desk, flicking through different channels before slumping back again.

“We could do better about conserving energy, though. Guess I shouldn’t check this thing so much but, god, it’s so freaking boring in here without something to look at.”

Russia hummed in understanding. “Why don’t you try looking at this?”

America turned his head. Russia hit the left-hand light switch. A macabre figure appeared in the doorway. A ragged gasp tore through America’s lungs.

“What the _hell?_ ” America lurched out of his seat, slamming both hands on the white button. The door squealed shut. “Dude, I know you like messing with me and all, but that wasn’t cool. You could have killed _both_ of us just then. When they’re outside the door like that, you know you’re supposed to—Are you seriously _laughing_ right now?”

Russia smiled around a close-lipped chuckle. “Relax, America. My self-preservation is even greater than the pleasure I get from hearing your little baby scream.”

“I didn’t scream.”

“He’s gone.” Russia flicked off the light and opened the door again. “And you seemed bored. I was just trying to offer a distraction.”

America snorted, returning to his chair. “Yeah, well? Find better ways to distract me.”

“I _will._ ”

A chill skipped up America’s spine. Russia caught it with his finger. He ruffled the golden hair at the base of America’s neck. America took a breath, tilted his head back to study the other man. Russia leaned down so his lips met America’s forehead. A cool gust of breath grazed his skin. America shivered once more.

“You will, huh?” he asked.

Russia hummed again. This time, the timbre of his voice was low, suggestive. He traced the curve of America’s ear. His other hand pressed flat to America’s chest. America tried not to scowl when he realized Russia was feeling his heart race.

“As long as you can pay attention to the doors while you—”

Suddenly, a high chime echoed through the building. Relief flooded America’s muscles. He laughed, swore he could hear children cheering with him. Their first shift was over, and they had survived.

America grinned. “Saved by the bell.”

5 AM. Night 1.

“Would you please _close that damned bloody door already?_ ”

“ _Non, monsieur,_ I will not step that close to the thing that is trying to _kill_ me.”

“It’s going to get a lot closer if you don’t—Oh, in the queen’s name.” England marched up to the leftmost door and slammed it shut. He flicked on the light, grimaced at the silhouette painted on the far wall. “And curse you back to whatever hellish depths from which you’ve risen.”

“Why do you think they don’t come to this door here?” France stroked the scruff on his chin, pondering the righthand entrance. “We have not had to close it once.”

England sighed and opened his door to empty space. “There are two more of these creatures, correct?”

France frowned at the video monitor. He traced an elegant finger down the screen. “ _Oui_ , as far as I can see.”

“And we have four more nights here.”

“So it appears.”

“Use your head.” England clicked on the monitor, startling at a face in the supply closet. “The other devils will join their friend soon enough.”

“Tsk. Hasn’t anybody told them three is a crowd?”

England leaned against the wall, crossing both arms over his chest. “That’s why we’re going to limit this office space to only _two_ partygoers. Understand? We are not letting anything else in here.”

“Ah, thank you, _Angleterre,_ for explaining our objective.” France draped a hand over his heart. His voice dripped sarcasm. “I fear I would be so lost without you.”

“You wouldn’t be lost long.” England arched a brow. “They would find you.”

That somber note was interrupted by a merrier one. The clanging of bells marked the end of their shift. England stood stiff in the middle of the room. France reclined against the desk. Both of them shared a glance.

“It appears we’ve survived,” France mused.

“It appears so.” England looked from either door, back to France. “Now, just follow my command for four more nights, and we’ll survive those too.”

France sighed. “Dying sounds worlds easier.”

3 AM. Night 2.

The curtains to Pirate Cove hung wide open. Recently, a face with glowing eyes and an unhinged jaw had begun peering into the camera. America checked it frequently, his palms slick with sweat.

“Yo Russia, Chicken Little is creeping up on our right side so if you wanna keep an eye on that door, that’d be sexy.”

Russia cast light over an empty window. He settled more comfortably in the doorway. “How is our fox friend doing?”

“He, like, _really_ wants to come tickle our balls.” America checked the monitor again, but a noise in the kitchen shifted his attention. He swore under his breath and flipped through the stations. “Think he’s lonely?”

“He reminds me of Arthur,” Russia said. “If you don’t pay enough attention to him, he shows up banging on your door and screams at you.”

America smirked. “Artie would like that one, yeah. They could bond over their pirate fetish and their feelings of neglect or– _Fuck._ Bonnie on the left. Shut that shit.”

America jabbed a finger toward the left-hand door. Russia was already shutting it. America’s breath came in heaves. Again, he checked on Pirate Cove. His heart rattled in its cage.

“Holy shit,” he exhaled. “That was a close one.”

“I have an idea.” Russia offered a grim smile from where he stood, guarding the righthand entrance. “To conserve power, whenever an animatronic shows up in the doorway, I crush it.”

“I’d say ‘let me know how that works out for you,’ but I really don’t wanna watch you get your face gored by a Freddy Fazbear suit.”

“Careful, America,” Russia warned. “If you keep saying things like this, someone might start to think you care about me.”

“I just figure, you have enough ugly scars to keep track of. That scarf can’t cover everything if you get yourself— _Shit,_ dude, keep that thing shut until they’re _gone_.”

America cringed as Russia shut the door on Bonnie again.

“Are you really going to get us both killed for a joke?” America grumbled. He looked at the monitor instead of Russia.

“Not both of us.” Russia raised the door and, this time, Bonnie was absent. “Besides, you can survive if Freddy Fazbear eats your frontal lobe, remember?”

America flustered and checked on a sound backstage. “I’m gonna…Freddy Fazbear your fuckin’ skull, dude.”

Russia smiled. The clock ticked on, too slowly.

4 AM. Night 3.

They rationed their power well, and England felt quite proud of himself. Never mind the circumstances under which he _learned_ how to ration; that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the monitor, the doors, and the rhythm England used to switch between them. France had been relegated to the chair.

“Remind me again why I’ve come back to this place?”

“No.” England switched to Pirate Cove and admired the scenery. “I must say, I rather like this pirate chap. He hardly causes any mischief at all. I do wish I could see him, though.”

“Oh! _Mon ami,_ do not speak like this.” France studied the poster on the wall and shivered. “Do you even know what it would mean, for a wish like that to come true?”

“Ah, there we go. The curtain is open a tad.” England turned the monitor in his hands, pensive. “I swear, I can almost see his little face. I’ll bet he’s fairly cute.”

Color and hope drained from France’s cheeks. Numbly, he said, “Yes, well, just keep checking on him, then.”

France paused while England checked either door. Silence filled the space between them, and silence was good. Then, England raised the monitor again. He had to check on the west hall, then the east, then the storage room for that blasted bear, and then he could return to Pirate Cove. He opened the first station. At first, nothing appeared amiss. Then—

“Wha…” England narrowed his eyes on a poster in the corner. It depicted the face of an unfamiliar golden bear. He frowned. “Why, that wasn’t there before.” He lowered the monitor. “France, what do you make of—”

His breath caught. France didn’t move, didn’t breathe. England followed his gaze to the middle of the room. A giant yellow bear sat slumped before them. England blinked away a wave of nausea. Two words flashed behind his eyelids: _IT’S ME._ A low groan escaped France’s lips, and England snapped his head in his direction.

“ _You idiot!_ ” England’s voice rose over the blood rushing in his ears, so he knew he had to be shouting. “How did that get in here? When? You were _supposed_ to take charge of the _doors_.”

France startled, then turned teary eyes on England and screamed, “Stop shouting at me and get it _out_ of here!”

“What do you expect me to do? He shouldn’t have gotten in here in the first place—”

“He’ll kill us!”

“ _Shut up!_ I saw him here…” England raised the monitor. He fumbled with the buttons, the device slipping in a cold sweat. He searched frantically for the same poster, for some explanation, and then the monitor was torn from his grip and—

“ _Angleterre_.” France’s voice sounded on a single, shuddering breath. He swallowed deep before continuing. “It is gone.”

England blinked. He turned his frenzied gaze on the office. Everything was in its place, and nothing was there that shouldn’t have been. He stood rigid, catching his breath, until France squeezed his palm.

“Come now, _amour_. It is not six o’clock yet.”

England drifted in his daze. For some reason, he remembered France’s question. Why _had_ they come back? England hadn’t given him an answer. At first, it was easy to pretend he simply didn’t have _time_ to cater to his partner’s whining. Now he understood something he didn’t want to admit: He didn’t have an answer, none at all. Finally, he looked to France and squeezed his hands in turn.

“Right. Let’s keep going.”

2 AM. Night 4.

“Have you checked on Arthur?”

Russia had taken to naming the animatronics after countries they knew. America supposed he thought it was funny. The Russian bastard always did have a twisted sense of humor. Admittedly, though, America found himself following suit.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m checking,” America mumbled. “I’m…trying to keep an eye on Ludbear here. Bastard keeps laughing at us. And he doesn’t…seem to have a set pattern. Whole thing’s giving me the creeps. Can you shut the left door?”

“There is no one here.”

“I know that but, shit, okay.” America frowned at the fox creature, fully emerged from its cove. He shook his head and flipped back. “Look, Luddy doesn’t show up at those windows like the other guys do. He just keeps moving to the office next to us, and I have a bad feeling about it. Just, trust me? For once?”

Sighing, Russia obeyed. “You are using a lot of our power.”

“I know. Fuck.” America put down the monitor and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m gonna try not to touch that thing for a minute. I think I fucked something up with Lud. Shoulda…checked on him more or something. Once he’s off that stage, we’re fu—”

Footsteps pattered down the west hall. America leapt to his feet. A sharp banging and a _scream_ sent him spiraling backwards. He caught himself on Russia’s sleeve. His head throbbed in time with his heart. He’d heard that noise before: That was one of the last things the phone guy heard before his final voicemail cut short.

“What the hell _was_ that?” America’s voice sounded shrill, too high.

Russia opened the door. Waited a moment. When nothing happened, he looked back at America. “Arthur, feeling ignored?”

“Fuck. Was it? _Shit._ Was it? It totally was. Goddammit. It was totally him.” America scrambled back to the desk and picked up the video monitor. Pirate Cove appeared untouched. The curtains were closed. The fox was hidden. America sucked down a few shallow breaths. “Shit, dude, he knocked down some of our power.”

“Unacceptable.” Russia’s voice grew farther away. “I will go have a chat with him.”

“What?” America spun around to see Russia ambling through the left door. “Dude! If you go out there, they’ll kill you. What am I supposed to—”

“Watch your doors.” Russia looked both ways, then started down the hall. His voice echoed off the walls. “And check your cameras, but sparingly.”

With that, Russia vanished into the gloom. America watched him go, gaping in astonishment. He ran over to check the righthand door, found it empty, and turned on the monitor instead. Cursing, he raced through every channel.

“Okay, these cameras have audio so I should be able to hear you still. I just gotta find—” America screamed at a face in the darkness. “ _Holy shit, it’s terrifying—_ Oh, it’s just you.”

Russia waved at the camera and continued on toward the dining room. America swallowed a long, slow breath. Fear trickled into his throat, so he swallowed that too. Carefully, he flicked through the other stations and—Wait a minute. He squinted at the footage, tried to focus more clearly. He couldn’t be sure but, it looked as though the animatronics were moving… _away_ from Russia? America sat back in his chair, amazed.

“Russia, you freaky son of a bitch.”

4 AM. Night 4.

Forget what England said about _rationing_. They still had two hours left, their battery life was nearly empty, and France was certain they were going to die.

“You’ve killed us.” France paced near the righthand door. England guarded the left. Even in the dim lighting, France could spot his glare. “Well? You’re the one who wanted to see the pirate so badly, and now look where we are. He has come after us twice, stolen our power, and now we are going to perish in a dark, robotic abyss. And I am still a virgin!”

“If you keep up the complaints, I’m going to use you as _bait—_ ” Suddenly, England registered France’s final claim. He paused, shut his mouth, opened it again, and said, “Yes, and I’m an American.”

A deep rumble of laughter scraped at their ears. France felt the fight leave him, and not for the first time. He buckled under a wave of stress. “And here is the face of death.”

England took a calming breath. He spoke slowly in the dark. “We must limit our use of the monitor. Any second now, our power will go out. When that happens—”

“Oh, _Angleterre_ , it can _not_ —”

“When that happens,” England repeated, eyes closed. “We still have a chance at survival.” There was a pause. Then, England strode over and handed the monitor to France. “I need you to keep an eye on Pirate Cove.”

Cold anxiety seeped under France’s skin. “Arthur, that is your job. Do not tell me you are thinking of slacking—”

“Check it as scarcely as you can,” England interrupted. “But often enough to keep that bugger in his hole. Do you understand me?”

“Arthur.” France felt pale. His fingers trembled around the monitor. He searched a pair of determined green eyes and sighed. “What foolish suicide attempt have you planned for us now?”

“I’m going to check the room next to us.” England held up a hand before France could protest. “That thrice damned bear will kill us if we don’t shut the door before it gets close.”

“That ‘thrice damned bear’ will kill _you_ if you go chasing after it.” France hooked his fingers into England’s sleeves. England tugged away and France was almost insulted before England shut the door behind them and returned his hands to France’s.

“Chica was behind you,” England whispered. He shook his head and went on. “We can’t afford to waste power monitoring Freddy or shutting the door when we don’t need to. Remember, this bastard doesn’t stop outside our windows like the others do. I will only be a moment. Listen for my orders.”

The two searched each other’s eyes. France’s were wide, flicking back and forth in disbelief. England’s were dark and steady, full of resolve. Finally, France leaned away to open the door behind him. A weak chuckle tickled his tongue.

“You are the stupidest man I have ever come to know.”

“And it’s still a wonder to me they didn’t model a frog animatronic after you.” England scoffed, softly, and took a step back. “Check the monitor. I have to go.”

“ _Angleterre._ ” France paused when England glanced back in his direction. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes he said, “Be careful.”

Arthur smirked—A devilish expression on him, really. Then, he stepped into the darkness, and he was gone.

France sighed again, wistful. “I can only pray that they bite off those horrible eyebrows before anything else.”

“I still hear you, frog,” came a hiss from outside.

France shrugged and checked the monitor. Pirate Cove was secure. He almost set the monitor aside, after that. He almost did what he was told. _Check it as scarcely as you can._ But a flood of curiosity rushed him, and he found himself scrambling through the channels. He stopped on the camera next to the office. A rock formed in his throat.

“ _Angleterre_ ,” he whispered, hoarse. “It is in there.”

France stood rooted to his spot. Then, a flicker of movement drove him forward. He bolted to the other side of the room and called out into the shadows.

“ _Stop!_ Arthur, come back! He is there—He is _coming_.”

A scramble of footsteps filled his ears. He heard panting breaths, and his hand fluttered over the _Door_ button. His other hand clutched at his chest; his heart pounded into his palm. They were dead. England was already, and France was soon to follow. He was sure of it.

“There’s more of them this way than I thought!” England’s voice strained above the buzzing panic in France’s ears. “Francis! Get ready to close that door! They’re right behind me. They’re— _Blimey—_ ”

An inhuman shriek, and France slammed the door shut. Terror boiled his blood, and he imagined it seeping, oozing between the teeth of some demonic machine. His hands shook so badly, he dropped the monitor. He heard a shatter, and a crunch. And then, something else.

“Francis! You tool!” A barrage of fists against the door. “Let me in, damn you! They’re right behind me, you were supposed to wait until I came _inside_ to shut the door, Francis— _Francis—_ ”

England’s voice bubbled off into streams of curses and threats. France heard fighting, but not for long, and then a series of shrieks that did not belong to England. Then, silence. And this time, the silence was not good.

France moved without thought. Cold feet carried him to the opposite end of the room. Those things were out there, he knew they were, and he knew they could come from only two directions. Without a sound, he raised his hand, and shut the second door. He felt nothing, except the painful knowledge that his power was running out, and he was only draining it faster. Past that, a glimmer of stale hope: If he stayed here with both doors shut, maybe what little battery he had would last until morning, and nothing could touch him until then.

“ _Dieu sauve-moi_ ,” France murmured to himself. He pulled up the office chair and lowered himself into it, folding both hands in his lap. Old prayers he hadn’t uttered in decades spilled past his lips. “ _Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces, le Seigneur est avec vous; vous ętes bénie entre toutes les femmes, et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles…_ ”

The power went out. The lights died, doors opened, and France’s breath froze. So did the rest of his body. He stared straight ahead at nothing, nothing at all. Cold dread poisoned his veins. Then, _footsteps._

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

Silence again. France was almost relieved by that sound, or the lack thereof. But of course, it did not last. The _Toreador March_ trickled into the room. It was such a beautiful song, really, and _French._ Such a shame what these Americans did to it, stuffing it in a music box, and locking _that_ inside a murderous circus attraction.

France’s gaze crept to the entrance. Another pair of eyes met his, only, these ones _glowed_. France continued his prayer.

When the screaming started up again, he couldn’t tell which ones belonged to him, and which poured past the gnashing teeth of Freddy Fazbear.

1 AM. Night 5.

“This hallway is clear.” Russia shined his flashlight down the east corridor. He adjusted his headset—America’s idea, naturally—and pressed on toward the dining area.

“Great job, dude.” America’s voice crackled over the speakers. “I know it’s only one o’clock, and I don’t want to jinx us or nothin’, but I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of winning this thing.”

“How much power do these headsets use again?” Russia asked, shifting his microphone.

“I dunno. Probably less than the monitor. And _definitely_ less than the doors, so just keep those things off our ass so we don’t have to use ‘em. How’s the dining room look?”

Russia stopped, bathing the area with a cone of light. “All clear.”

“Hell yeah!” Russia winced as a screech of feedback drilled into his eardrums. America spoke again, softer this time. “Oh shit, sorry.”

“Do not apologize to me,” Russia said. “Just be prepared to apologize to your loved ones when your big mouth gets you killed by animatronic devils.”

“I’ll just talk ‘em to death. Back when I was a colony, Arthur used to say, if anyone ever tried to invade me, I’d just have to start talking, and they’d change their mind.”

“If you followed his advice, perhaps you would not have needed a Revolution. You would have been free from the beginning.” Russia nudged open the restroom door with the toe of his boot. His flashlight illuminated a tattered creature huddled in the corner, and he looked on it with disinterest. “I found one in the restroom. It does not look like it will come out any time soon.”

The door banged shut as America cheered. “Dude, what an awesome idea this was. See, I told you, all you had to do was back me up. I’ve got it all planned out. Now, why don’t you start making your way back through the west hall.”

“Of course, now that I am done doing all the hard work.” Russia smiled softly to himself. His footfalls echoed upon the tile. “In the meantime, can you check on Pirate Cove? Or is that too much work for you?”

“Dude… What are you saying to me right now?”

“Nothing. Check Arthur.” Russia rounded the western corner, idly swinging his flashlight back and forth. “I am coming back to your hidey hole, so try not to panic when you see me. I know it will be rare for you, being up close to anything remotely threatening.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” America’s voice dropped, and Russia’s smile grew. He knew that tone. It was full of indignance and tasty, tasty pride. “I am _delegating_ here. It’s what leaders do.”

“Where I come from, we would call this, _giving all of the responsibility to someone else_.” Russia paused in the west hall, shined his flashlight in the supply closet. Empty. “It is the practice of a coward, America.”

“So, you want me to be doing your job instead.” America snorted, and Russia could practically _see_ the sharpness in his smile. America was only lucky Russia wasn’t in the same room as him yet; that expression might cause Russia to put them both in a rather…distracting situation. “Is that what you’re telling me? Russia?”

“Oh, no.” Russia stopped again outside the office door. America hadn’t noticed his approach. _Perfect_. “I simply want to be recognized as the hero I am.”

“You? The hero?” America barked a laugh, and Russia nearly tore off his headset. The noise was too much, too loud. “ _I’m_ the hero. I’ve always been the hero. Me. You’re just a longtime villain who’s finally paving a path of redemption. With the hero’s help, by the way. You wouldn’t be able to shed all that evil by yourself.”

“I am the villain,” Russia said flatly. “After all these nights that I’ve helped you survive. After all the times I saved you from our _true_ enemies, creatures you wouldn’t be able to imagine in your worst nightmares. After all of that…I am the evil one?”

“Yep.”

Russia felt a sneer curl hot across his lips. “Why don’t you wait until I’m in that room with you, and I’ll show you what happens when I _want_ to be a villain.”

“How about, no thanks.”

Russia took a step toward the office. His fingers twitched, tight, as he imagined America’s throat beneath them. A clanging noise tore him from his fantasies. The door. The door was shutting on him. He shouted and ran forward. Too late. America had locked him out.

“America.” Russia banged on the door, heavy and slow. “You are wasting your power and turning your allies against you. Open the door.”

“I don’t think I want to, though,” came America’s voice, muffled on the other side. “And the thing is, heroes only do what they _want_ to do.”

“And heroes want to leave innocent men to die because of a petty feud. Is that what you are telling me?”

Another crackle of laughter. “Innocent? Oh, dude, you are _hilarious_. No, really, I think that’s what I’ll miss the most about you.”

Bright white lights flickered to life overhead. Russia threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. He squinted and blinked until the figure in the window became clear. America was on the other side, laughing at him. America was safe, and America was _laughing_ because Russia _wasn’t_.

“I’ll let you back in, obviously.” America grinned behind the glass. Russia wanted to pull all those pretty teeth out so he could never smile like that again. “You just gotta make a few confessions.”

Blind. America always was so very blind. He was blind to the consequences of taunting Russia—Though, Russia decided he wouldn’t be for long—and he was blind to something a little more tangible happening right behind him. Russia said nothing, but his eyes shifted over America’s shoulder.

“First, I just want you to admit that I am, irrevocably, the greatest hero that ever lived, and your wickedness is nothing compared to my totally heavenly aura. And, while you’re at it, you can _thank_ me for taking the time out of my busy night to set you on a path of redempt—Oh, shit. Shit. What the _fucking shit Russia fuck!_ ”

The lights fizzled. America shrieked over the headset. There was a terrible, inhuman screech. It pierced Russia’s ears, and it would have made him tear off his headphones, if he couldn’t still hear America’s pleas.

“Russia, they’re in here, they came through the other door, I didn’t even, _fuck_ , I didn’t even see them, there’s so many and, _oh my god, Russia, please, they’re fucking—Ahhhh!_ ”

Russia listened a minute longer. The other line went dead. He took off his headset, looked at it, and tossed it on the floor. Then, he stared at the heavy iron door before him.

“Now I need to go all the way around the building to the other door,” Russia said, to no one who could hear him. “And I have to hope the power doesn’t go out before I get there, all because you wanted to shut this one on me. Good.”

Russia ambled off toward the dining room. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. His surroundings reminded him of home in the wintertime. This suffocating blackness was not unfamiliar to him, and so, he navigated it with ease.

Until a towering figure stood in his way. Russia stopped. He tilted his head back to look up at the creature. It was the chicken, the one that was always eating.

“Hello, Alfred.” Russia tilted his head. “Finally out of the kitchen, I see.”

The giant bird gawked at him from the depths of its inky black shroud. Russia sighed through his nose. In one lazy motion, he raised his flashlight. Clicked it on. The beast had moved closer. Russia clicked the flashlight back off, then on, then off, then on. He’d heard something about the light’s ability to disorient these hellish machines. When Russia flicked his light off for the eighth time, though, and the creature still had not retreated, he changed tactics.

Russia turned his flashlight around and shined it on his own face, revealing himself to his foe. The light blinded him, made it impossible for him to tell where his opponent stood. But then, when he leveled the light back in front of him, the space was empty. Russia continued on, unperturbed.

The power had gone out by the time Russia reached the eastern door. He wasn’t worried about it. He felt his way through the dark and collapsed into the leather office chair. It groaned beneath his weight and he welcomed the sound, though it wasn’t as pretty as America’s screams.

After a time, Russia swept a hand over the desk. Plastic crunched under his fingers. Ah. Leave it to America to pack refreshments. He recognized the smooth outline of a bottle of vodka and flicked off the lid. Then, he reclined in his seat, took a drink, and dared something to attack him there in the dark.

Nothing came, except morning.

Afterward.

“I would have survived, if it weren’t for _this_ bloke.”

England jammed his finger into France’s chest. The other man slapped his hand away, insulted. “ _Mon ami_ , I promise you…” France purred, and his voice went from silky to vicious, with an expression to match. “Your recklessness and incompetence would have killed you no matter _who_ your partner might have been.”

“I demand a redo.” England scowled. He looked around, searching, as though he didn’t already have his new partner in mind. “Alfred. You’re with me this time.”

America perked up from where he sat sulking in the corner. “Huh? Oh. Sure, Art, but we gotta make a couple rules first.”

“Like not trapping your partner outside of the office out of spite, perhaps.” Russia smiled with his suggestion.

“Or out of _cowardice_ ,” England added. “Yes, I think that is a splendid idea. Russia, why don’t you go in with France this time. You can teach him that rule personally.”

“Ah, but _monsieur,_ to be stuck in that office with Russia would be more horrific than taking on all of those animatronic devils at once.” France draped a hand across his forehead. He offered Russia a quick onceover and added, pouting, “No offense.”

Russia’s smile remained. “Offense taken.”

“Alright everyone, just calm the heck down. I’ve got an idea of how to do this, and I know it’s the best idea, because I’m totally heroic and shit and I’m gonna make sure we stay alive and also don’t die.”

“Bullocks. You are not a hero, you’re just a naïve country who’s better at giving orders than taking them—And that’s only because you’re _dreadful_ at taking orders.”

“You should be careful saying that to him, or he will lock you outside for the monsters to get, just like he did to me, no?”

“Not to worry, _mon chér_ , I can show you a very _fun_ series of orders that you will be happy to obey.”

“Dudes… Is this the sixth night, because it feels like another round of hell to me.”

A pause. Then, multiple accents jumbled into one. “ _There’s a sixth night?_ ”


End file.
